


equation

by flailingthroughsanity



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Character Study, Hope, Introspection, M/M, Mr. Taxi AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 03:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17296706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flailingthroughsanity/pseuds/flailingthroughsanity
Summary: “Have you ever wanted to be something far larger than what you are now, Shiro?”“Once, and I can’t remember anymore.” He whispered, even when he does remember every sliver that it made him feel, the spikes of dreams and ambition, a little nest of happiness welling up in his eight year old self.Keith’s voice is soothing when he responds. “Maybe it’s about time that you did.”Shiro has always lived a life of routine - numbers, equity and order - because what he know and what can't change means it can never hurt him. It takes a fortuitous moment, one after another - bumping into a taxi driver by the name of Keith - to make him remember that growing up doesn't have to mean forgetting what was important.





	equation

**Author's Note:**

> OK, this is going to be another addition to my attempt in writing shorter fics. It's Shiro-centrict, and nothing romantic happens explicitly - it's more of a character study, and I'm not going to lie, this fic is actually close to my heart in spite of it being so short: I guess you can say that a lot of the discussion hits too close to home, so it was very cathartic writing it out.
> 
> Anyhow, title is from Camille's Equation from the original motion picture soundtrack of The Little Prince.

Have I made you cross?  
Have I made you sad?  
Have I made you proud, mom?  
  
Will I ever know how white is the snow?  
Does it matter after all?  
Will I ever learn how to fly like birds?  
  
Maybe in an hour, in a day, in a week?  
In a thousand weeks? In a year?  
In a million years?  


* * *

Fortuitous — it means to happen by accident or chance and not by design. Shiro’s never been one to put much basis on something like chance, on something as unreliable and inconsistent as fate. That’s not to say that he has not experienced the random, oftentimes unplanned things that happen to him — when his coworkers submit the report he expected to be delayed, or when he fumbled for change for the taxi, expecting none, only to find some — but these weren’t the things that you’d read in a life-plan book, or see on social media posts that try to be inspirational. He didn’t see life working like that – you just go do the things you need to do, and that’s pretty much it. He’s never understood how some people could look at life in rose-tinted glasses – that’s not to say that he is a pessimist – and not be disappointed when things don’t go their way. Optimism is fine, Shiro honestly thinks that, but optimism paired with a naïve sense of idealism was impractical and, to be honest, stupid. Why would you want to set your hopes on something that just isn’t realistic? Shiro, sometimes, wondered about that – about what makes people hopeful enough to hope for something _un_ realistic, or perhaps, something incredibly idealistic. All his life, he’s been taught to work, to sacrifice to get the things that he wanted – you have to set everything right, his mother would say, and you’ll make a wonderful grown-up when you do – and he’s had to cram every night, spend every break studying to get high grades in school, because that’s what life is all about. There’s an order to everything and, frankly speaking, putting too much stock into hoping wasn’t the way to get things done.  
  
Hard work, Shiro thought. Hard work, the right connections and a good image – that’s how you succeed.  
  
“What about happiness? What about dreams?” Keith asked, quietly. “What about the things you’ve given up and let fester in the dark?”

Shiro doesn’t have an answer because, looking back, he’s never had the courage to ask.

* * *

Keith was a dreamer, on the right side of almost tall, with haphazard dark hair and a mischievous glint in his purple-blue eyes. Shiro meets him outside his office, on a fixture of routine, on what should have been another common Tuesday in his life, in a long line of checks and balances and repetition.  
  
Takashi ‘Shiro’ Shirogane’s life is a series of routines – it’s how he gets by. He wakes up when the sunlight cuts through the folds of his drapes, not at the exact same time for each consecutive day but somewhere near that, rounding off six-thirty and seven in the morning. Eyes open, he’d lay there, looking up at the generic white ceiling of his apartment, feeling the cool breeze of the January air and he stands from his bed, blinking away the sleep that still tempts him to come back. He’d sometimes wakes up before the alarm, or sometimes with it – regardless, he did the same thing: he sets his feet on the ground and gets ready for the day.  
  
Breakfast before the shower, always the same set – a bowl of cereal, a cup of coffee and maybe an apple or a banana to stave off the blandness. It all fell under the same order, the ticking of the wall clock sounding distinct in the background – he lives by routine, it sets his entire day.  
  
Shiro’s never had the need to disrupt it. Everything was better when there was order.  
  
He walks to work, dressed up to the nines, briefcase in one hand, the other swinging by his side – in time with the cadence of his feet – and along a multitude of others, joined the flow of the early Seoul morning. Even the mass of people congesting in sidewalks, in an almost symbiotic movement, had a cadence of order to it – and the order soothes him, reminds him of certainty and surefootedness.  
  
When he catches sight of _Kim-Jang & Co, CPAs _ , engraved on a large stone plaque by the foot of a steel-lined skyscraper, Shiro breathed deep, preparing himself for another day of numbers, reports and paperwork. Accountancy was safe – each digit always the same, nine is nine and two is two and the order that flowed followed its own path. Mathematics operated on the principle of equality and equity – and Shiro knew numbers the way he knows the pacing of his own breathing.  
  
He’s climbing up the steps, impeccable black shoes glinting in the morning light when the squeak of rubber on stone reached his ears – he’s only given a moment to look up and wonder, when something (or someone) collides into him and pushes him intto the person behind him. He heard a sound of surprise — a mingled curse cut off in a squeak of alarm — and warmth on his shoulder – inhaling the scent of roasted coffee beans and something sweet like cinnamon.  
  
Bright wide eyes under dark hair greets him, and Shiro blinks as the woman behind him glares at them in askance – her cup of coffee, half on the ground, half on Shiro’ coat.  
  
“I am so sorry!” The stranger says, bowing, but the woman hisses and stalks off and Shiro becomes the recipient of an apologetic gaze.  
  
“I’m really sorry, sir, I slipped and I didn’t mean to.” He repeated, and Shiro’s raising a hand, waving away the man’s stammered apologies as his focus is distracted – the coffee was going to leave a stain on the white dress shirt he had under – and he pulled out his handkerchief from his back pocket.  
  
The stranger saw what he was doing and, Shiro sighed tiredly to himself, decided to pull out his own handkerchief and started wiping on Shiro’s sleeve.  
  
“You don’t have to do that, it’s fine.” Shiro said, or lied – it’s not fine, it really isn’t but he didn’t have a choice — and tried to stop the man from touching him any further. He’s somewhat become uncomfortable at the thought of people he barely knew putting their hands on him and he took a step away from the stranger.  
  
“I really am sorry.” The man relented, standing back, and Shiro tried his best not to let out another annoyed breath. He looked repentant enough, handkerchief crinkling in his hands as the stranger stared at his sleeve and back at his frowning face. Shiro wanted to get angry but getting angry would take too much energy and, frankly, he just wanted everything done and over so he can get back to business and the rest of his day. “I can make it up to you, I’ll buy you a new shirt? Yes, I can do that!”  
  
“Honestly,” Shiro raised a hand, and he catches sight of his watch and – _shit!_ He had a minute left before he’s officially late. Courtesy threatening to disappear, Shiro gritted his teeth and bit out. “Just. Stop. I have to get to work, please excuse me.”  
  
The man jumped, once more apologetic, and he was fumbling for something in his pocket. Shiro was about to step around him and run up the stairs – something he’s not used to doing but is considering just so he can get back to his usual order – when the man brandished a pen and a tissue paper and decided to write something on it. He finished, and forced the paper into Shiro’s free hand.  
  
“Please, I have my number there – call me or anything, I want to make it up to you.”  
  
Desperate to get him away, Shiro nodded and stuffed it in his front pocket – he stepped to the side and runs up the stairs, ignoring the man’s trailing apologies.  
  
When he reached the company entrance, he took out the paper out and, crushing it in his fist, and throwing it into the trash bin by the lifts.

* * *

It was thirty minutes past eight in the evening when he leaves the office, exhausted and hungry. Shiro has had a long day. The lower floor’s junior executives had miscalculated and sent in the wrong numbers on the report: there was some backlash, and his floor was tasked to pick up the slack (on top of their usual day-to-day audits) by the director. As the senior executive, Shiro had to stay back and double check everything – made sure that all their numbers were in, including the lower floor’s report (their senior executive, who was on leave, called him up to apologize and frankly, Shiro’s had enough apologies for one day, if the snappy “I’ll see you next week, Akira” was anything to go by) and closed the floor up — at this point, he’s not even sure if he wants to sleep or eat or do both at the same time.  
  
When he reached the lobby, the evening security guard smiled at him and Shiro merely raises a hand, waving, too tired to do anything more – Jiro looked young, and Shiro usually has a smile for him, but he didn’t care if he looked downright rude right now - and after having his bag checked, walked out of the office and into the chilly breeze of the January night.  
  
Reaching the taxi lane, Shiro sped to the nearest available one and popped the door open, setting his bag in first, closing the door after himself.  
  
“Twenty-sixth street, Cheongdam-dong. Take the street by Garosu-gil, please.” Voice flat, Shiro leaned his head back on the arm of the couch. He peeked at the driver, wondering why the car wasn’t moving, when he caught sight of the rear view mirror and felt dread broil in the pit of his stomach at the sight of familiar purple-blue eyes under dark brown – almost black in the nighttime – hair.  
  
“Sir!”  
  
“Oh, no.”  
  
The stranger turned in his seat, staring at him. “What are the chances, yeah?”  
  
“Yes,” Shiro growled – and if this was the silver lining in his day, he wasn’t seeing the humor in it. “What are the chances, indeed.”  
  
“You didn’t call me, or text me.” The man said, slightly teasing, but he still looks a bit apologetic. “I’m Keith, by the way.”  
  
Shiro exhaled loudly.  
  
“Please, just get me home.”  
  
Perhaps hearing the bite in his voice, or maybe seeing the frown lines on his face, the stranger pursed his lips and turns back, starting the car up. It takes only a second before Shiro heard the familiar hum of the car engine and he relaxed, breathing easier when the car started to move and join downtown Seoul’s flow. The cab smoothly sailed into the current, backed on all four sides, moving with the rest. The driver – Keith – was blessedly silent and Shiro allowed the tension in his body relax, eyes drooping tiredly, the reflection of passing lights from the street-lamps and moving cars streaking across his eyes. Crowds of people flocked the streets, under neon-lights and the capital’s unceasing noise, and there was something comforting about how normal it all is. It looked chaotic, but even in the scramble, there was still a slight semblance of order to it.  
  
He may have misjudged his own exhaustion, as Shiro felt his eyes droop and close, lulled to slumber by the subtle engine hum and the dancing, flickering stars of Seoul’s towers. 

* * *

Shiro was seven years old, and he’s standing in the kitchen of his home. In one hand, he has a newly-drawn picture of him, his mother and his father working in ‘Kan-a-da’, a crayon in the other. He stopped in his tracks, watching his mother standing by the sink.  
  
He didn’t know what she’s doing, but her shoulders were shaking, trembling, and she’s sniffling – he sometimes gets that, especially when he’s sick or when his allergies kick up – and he wondered? Why was mother crying?  
  
“Oh, Takashi, you’re there.” His mother exclaimed, hurriedly wiping her eyes and turning to the dining table, setting plates down. "Go get ready for dinner.”  
  
“Okaa-san,” he said and he raises the picture, wanting to cheer her up. She’s always liked his drawings, and Shiro remembered showing them to her a long time ago.  
  
His mother turned to him for a second, down at the paper, and back to the table, placing spoons by the bowls. “Have you studied already? I told you to study, right? You have an exam coming up.”  
  
Shiro’s hand slowly comes down, picture in his hand. He was meaning to study, but he wanted to draw first. Maybe he should have studied first, he didn’t want to disappoint his mother.  
  
“Get ready for dinner, and when we’re done, you’re going to study. No TV for tonight, not until exams are over.” His mother said, still sniffling. “You need to study really well, Shiro. You need to be a good grown-up because mommy’s not going to be around all the time.”  
  
She turned to him, and Shiro looked up, still silent. “You get that, right?”  
  
He never noticed it then – never noticed the tired eyes, the exhausted look on his mother’s face – all he noticed then was the picture trailing by his side, and him nodding, responding in a quiet voice. “Yes, Okaa-san.”  
  
The hand-drawn picture remained by the living room side-table, half atop, half-threatening to fall into the trash bin below, as Shiro runs up the stairs and gets ready for supper.

* * *

A car honk, and Shiro awakened with a start – sitting up, feeling blood rush into his right cheek and realizing that he had fallen asleep against the car window. He looked for his bag, groping for his wallet to pay the driver when he took note of his surroundings and sat up seeing that he was not home yet.  
  
“Where—?” He asked, eyeing the driver with bleary eyes. The man – and Shiro remembered his name was Keith — turned and shrugged his shoulders.  
  
“East Apgujeong.”  
  
“Apgu—that’s not what I said. I said Garosu-gil.” Shiro replied, confused and somewhat annoyed. Keith shrugged again. “Cheongdam-dong by Garosu-gil, that’s what I said.”  
  
“I did!” Keith answered back. “I mean, I was there but traffic was bad because of this accident with a bus—“  
  
“What?” Shiro exclaimed, more to himself, sounding disgruntled.  
  
“—so I routed to Apgujeong so we can cut into the highway, even if it would take a while longer, but then apparently all the lines in Garosu-gil were routed here and, uh, we’ve been stuck here for two hours.”  
  
Two hours? Honestly?  
  
“Honestly? Two hours?” Shiro groaned quietly, and his head flopped back against the car window. At this rate, he would rather have just taken the subway and walked the rest of the journey back and would have been at home by now. But no, this had to happen.  
  
His stomach growled, and Shiro feels a headache coming in. Looking around, he spies a few restaurants amidst Apgujeong’s high-fashion boutiques and decides to just stop here. If this is how it’s going to be, he could at least do it with a full stomach.  
  
Another growl, but it’s not from Shiro and he turns to see the driver looking embarrassed. Shiro frowned, and Keith spoke out. “Didn’t grab lunch, now I’m regretting that decision.”  
  
It’s honestly not his problem, Shiro knew that. It honestly isn’t.  
  
But he took a look at the growing discomfort on the driver’s face and the quiet sighing and, taking a look around their surroundings, knew that the restaurants around cost more than what a taxi driver would earn on a week’s wages. Sighing – and maybe some part of him has grown exhausted from snapping all day – he made up his mind and turns to Keith.  
  
“Just…just park here and let’s grab dinner. I’ll pay.”  
  
Keith jumped and turned to him, and Shiro noticed how young the other looks – with his hair and his eyes and that small nose – and the driver’s face flushed red. “I, um, I’m fine. It’s not a problem. I can just drop—“  
  
“Look,” Shiro’s voice was firm and Keith quieted. “I’m tired and sleepy and hungry. Can we please just go with this?”  
  
Keith opened his mouth, probably to argue, and Shiro was about to give up and open the door when the driver blurts out.  
  
“I know somewhere better!”  
  
Shiro half-turns. “What?”  
  
Keith smiled, a little unsure. “I know somewhere better? If, you know, that’s fine with you, sir.”  
  
A line like that, especially from a stranger, was bound to be bad news – but Shiro’s had a long day and he takes a look at the driver’s hopeful, earnest gaze and closed the door, raising a hand. “Fine, fine, just go already.”  
  
“Thank you, sir! I promise, you won’t be disappointed, sir!”  
  
“Shiro.” He muttered. “My name is Shiro.”

He ignored the way the other says his name under his breath, as if memorizing it, and watches as they make a U-turn and run down a quieter road. They’re moving away from the packed streets, and down lonelier lanes, where buildings were more set apart compared to the main districts, and Shiro ignored the questions in his head at the situation – mostly the question wondering why and where he’s going with a stranger for dinner.  
  
It was not something he was used to – and, to be honest, he doubted it was anything anyone would ever get used to – but his focus went elsewhere when they come up to a little food booth, and Shiro leaned forward in his seat, watching the shimmering reflection of the moon on the Han River’s smooth surface. The taxi skidded to a stop by the stall, and an elderly man walked out the back, waving. Shiro’s brows furrowed, eyeing the stall and the river and he thought, or said aloud rather—  
  
“Is that even legal?”  
  
Keith chuckled as he unclasped his seatbelt. Shiro looked at him and the other turned back a little just to wink.  
  
He frowned even further.  
  
“Come on, Shiro. You’ll love it, I promise.”  
  
He highly doubted that, but Shiro was too hungry to argue and steps out of the cab, closing the door after him. He heard the quiet gushing of the river, and the caws of the evening birds and he went around the car, following the other.  
  
“Ah, Keith! My favorite customer!” The elderly man, Shiro guessed he was the owner, exclaimed.  
  
Keith laughed. “More like your only customer.”  
  
The ahjussi chuckled, a little raspy, and took a look at him. “That doesn’t seem to be the case tonight.”  
  
Shiro gave him a polite smile, though he doesn’t really feel like it, and bowed a little. Keith turned a bit to him, grinning. “He’s a customer, pops, but we hit a gridlock and got hungry and we’re here, so serve us some of those spring rolls.”  
  
The ahjussi escorted them to the seats, and he made a humming sound at Keith’s chatter. Shiro looked around, viewed the assortment of food on display and, he had to admit, it did smell good, if not a little _too_ good.  
  
He recalled Keith’s words, and turned to the driver. “Your father?”  
  
Keith faced him, a little surprised, and smiled. “Nope. But he’s old enough to be one. Nah, he’s just this really cool ahjussi selling food without a health permit.”  
  
“Pfft,” the ahjussi snorted. “If you cook it hot enough, it’s fine.”  
  
Shiro’s deadpan glare had Keith chuckling. “I see. Lovely.”  
  
“No, seriously,” Keith consoled, patting his arm and Shiro found himself, once again, the recipient of a small twinkle-eyed smile. “You’ll like it. Trust me.”  
  
The driver was looking at him in hope, maybe somewhat earnestly, and Shiro sighed – for the nth time – and set his briefcase down. “Fine.”  
  
The ahjussi swung into his vision, and grinned at him warmly. “You won’t regret it, boy, trust me.”  
  
The words seemed ominous, and probably meant something entirely different. Not that Shiro could focus on them when a bowl of ramen is placed before him and he inhales the scent and pauses. 

* * *

Shiro ran down to the kitchen, feet padding against the wooden floors. He was nine, and his mother had left him a note that she’s gone to work – busy as usual – and he hurries down for breakfast.  
  
Still feeling a little sleepy, he raised a fist to rub against his eyes when he reached the dining table and saw the box on it, and the bowl of ramen left atop the table.  
  
He walked to it – inhaling the scent of ramen, his mother’s own recipe, wafts of sweetness and spice reaching his nose – and he looked at the box.  
  
It was plain, tan, with a FRAGILE sticker on its side and he carefully opened it.  
  
Nestled amidst the styrofoam was a snow globe, and Shiro took it out – in careful, tender hands – feeling the cold glass against his skin. Setting it on the table, the movement caused the artificial snow to rise and cover little Toronto nestled inside it in a wintry storm.  
  
There was a post-it note on the side, and with a finger on the edge of the paper, he read off “ _love, papa_ ” and turned back to the snow globe. He has five more snow globes in his room, all on a shelf for him to look at before he went to sleep.

One for each birthday since his father had gone to work overseas.

He suddenly felt incredibly lonely, with a mother too busy at work to make time for him, and a father, worlds away, too far for him to talk to.  
  
It was the twenty-ninth of February. It was his ninth birthday.

* * *

“Well, dig in.” Keith said, and Shiro was brought away from his memories. He looked at the other, and watched him start on his food and he relented – picking up the spoon set by the bowl.  
  
It tasted exactly how it smelled – a tinge of heat down his throat to stave away the cool evening air. He grabs a cut of meat from the tray the ahjussi placed in between them, and his mood slowly starts getting better.  
  
It was a bit later – when he’s halfway through his bowl and his stomach starting to feel a lot less antagonistic – that he broached conversation. He’s even a little surprised himself – he’s not one to make small talk with strangers (not that that opportunity arises much).  
  
“How long have you been a taxi driver?” He asked, curious – or maybe just feeling a bit awkward. Damn it, he’s not used to this. Numbers and equations yes, but questions born out of a need to know threw him off his own tracks.  
  
“Hm?” Keith looked up, a noodle strand disappearing from between his lips. “Oh? A year? Almost a year, I think.”  
  
He really looked at Keith then – and is reminded of the other’s youth. Shiro’s not one to discriminate based on profession, but he couldn’t help but think that most, if not all, of the taxi drivers he has seen were more or less of the older age spectrum, like the ahjussi handling this stall (he still thinks that it’s somewhat illegal to even set this up here without a permit). Keith looked young enough, even young enough to still be in college, maybe as a senior.

Shiro suddenly felt old, for some reason.

“Was it—“ and Shiro paused, unsure on how to word it out. It was funny, because he can find the right words to talk to the right people, but in something casual like this, he fell short. “Was it because you needed the money, or—?”  
  
Maybe his awkwardness came through, because Keith looked up and smiled at him. He didn’t look offended at Shiro’s unintended slight. “No, not because of the money. Well, it does help from time to time.”  
  
Keith set his spoon down, and he looked deep in thought. Shiro lets him be, even with his curiousity rising, the sizzling of more meat cuts almost quiet in the background. “It might be a little weird, but being a taxi driver – you meet a lot of people, strangers, and I like the experience of talking to different people everyday.”  
  
“But it was your choice, right? What you’re doing right now?”  
  
“Yes,” Keith grinned, voice lilting up a notch. “It was. My friends used to ask me — ‘why would you want to be a taxi driver? Why give up your degree and settle for that?’ — and I get why they’re confused, because it’s not the kind of profession someone our age would want in this time – but I did. I _do_ want this job, I want to meet people, I want to meet strangers and even if it sometimes makes it hard to get by, it’s something I like doing and I’m happy it’s like that.”  
  
Shiro doesn’t understand it – because all his life he’s been taught to always aim high, to aim for success. You have to be a good grown-up, his mother had repeated throughout the years, you have to have your life set out because it’ll be difficult to carry on without a plan. You’ll be alone, and no one will be there to help you – so you have to help yourself, make sure everything is set and that you’re not coming in blind.  
  
Childish dreams have to be set aside, because dreams can’t feed you, and dreams can’t keep a roof over your head and dreams can’t pay the bills.  
  
Yet, here was a stranger, telling him that he had disregarded a possibly set future in favor of something that interests him, a future that had no order and no routine. It was the kind of thing he expected to see in some self-help magazine, or the kind that he’d see on a social media post intended to be inspirational but ended up sounding trite and preachy to him. He _doesn’t_ get it.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Why what?”  
  
Shiro frowned. “Isn’t that difficult, isn’t that scary? To give up on a reliable future and go after something…something so unsure?”  
  
“You know what?” Shiro raised a brow at Keith’s question. “I don’t blame you for thinking that. That’s the same kind of question my friends used to raise up, and I don’t blame you for making that same assumption. It’s true – it is a weird choice, especially when I could have graduated with a degree in political science and maybe get a job in the government or something like that – but, you know that feeling, when you wake up one day and think about your own life, how short it is and what you want to do with it?”  
  
Shiro nodded, still a bit lost, but he understood that part at least. He was once in that mindset, a long time ago – but that was in the past, and he didn’t have the time or the compulsion to dwell in it anymore like he used to.  
  
“It’s like that,” Keith followed, a hand under his chin, lips quirked in a small smile. “I just thought to myself, about what I want to do and realized that it’s not going to make me happy. I understood what it cost me – I could be in an office right now, working a nine-to-five job and getting benefits, but it’s just not for me. I couldn’t see myself being like that, working enclosed, and whiling my time away.”  
  
He took a look at Shiro’s coat. “Not that I judge you for your choices. Which reminds me, I’ve still yet to make it up to you for ruining your jacket.”  
  
“What?” Shiro blurted out, confused. Then he remembered. “Oh. Don’t worry about it.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
And Shiro’s thoughts mirrored the surprise – because it’s not like him, not like him at all to let go of something that ruined his routine but today has been a day of weird things, of unplanned moments and, for once, it was not as nerve-wracking as he honestly thought it would be. He was still a bit bothered, and his curiousity was surprisingly more than what he’s used to, but there was something magnetic about Keith’s idealistic words – something that should have sounded naïve, should have sounded irritatingly childish – but the brightness in his eyes, and the wisdom glowing in them has Shiro thinking otherwise. Experience sometimes does that to people – make them more introspective and detached from the normal order of things. Shiro languidly thought to the truth of Keith’s words, to see bluff, only to hear something that made him really believe in his own words and, oddly, the idea is nice – even if he can’t really understand it past the surface. 

* * *

“I spent ten years in Canada, working my ass off, and he doesn’t even make it?!”  
  
“It’s not his fault! Why would you blame him for it? Takashi did his best, I know he did.”  
  
“He failed the entrance examination! What part of it doesn’t make it his fault?! Did he even study – or did you just baby him all the time like you always do?”  
  
“He’s your _son_ , how can you say that? It’s not the only school in the country. He can still try out for a differen—“  
  
The ringing voices of his parents, arguing, cut even through the walls. Shiro sighed and continues to scribble on the side of his English Literature book. The rain continued to pelt down, and Shiro can hear it faintly from beyond the curtained windows and the orange lamplight from the corner of his room. A roll of thunder sounded like a mass of blocks crashing to the ground, dulled and feeble.  
  
He smiled to himself, a little tremulous, a little broken, as he drew a small dog barking, and maybe including in a little boy, with a treat in his hand.  
  
“Where is he? I need to get him straightened out.”  
  
“No, you are not talking to your son like this. He’s only twelve years old.”  
  
Shiro added in a few stars over their heads, and a little moon. A few clouds, here and there, cutting through the text of his book – but he ignored it. He knew his mother will be angry to see him vandalizing his book, but he doesn’t pay it any heed right now.  
  
“And what? This is going to go on his record. How’s he going to make it for college? You tell me, since you always baby him like he’s still two, how is he getting into a good school?”  
  
He added in two more figures, small smile slowly disappearing, and he ended the drawing with two curves. Shiro rests the pen by the side of the book, and watched through blurred tears at the proud smiles of the stick-parents he’s drawn, at the little cozy family by the side of his textbook.  
  
“He is a disappointment.”

* * *

Even at a distance, the gentle rushing of the river reached their ears. They’ve moved to the bank, sitting on the grass and Keith held a bottle of soju in his hands. Shiro has one, too, nestled by his legs. The January wind drifted in again, and the faint scent of leaves hit his nostrils. It smelled nice, just the right crip wind after winter – the smell of grass and leaves, far-away from Seoul’s smog-filled air. It was entirely unique, now that Shiro thought about it, because the borders of the river run right through most of the major city districts. When he was younger, he remembered thinking it was the sea at first: the receding waters too distant for him to note, reaching almost infinitely into the horizon. Ironically, growing up meant realizing the minute charms of childhood were self-created illusions to make everything seem more fantastic than they actually were. The Han River glittered even in the darkness, moonlight sprinkled across the rattling surface – almost like black diamond. It was rare enough to find a spot without a few vehicles, or crowds of people running through.  
  
The Han river was wide, carving itself a path through most of Seoul. In the daylight, its surface would often be tinged in deep green, reflecting the sunlight off in a scatter of glitters. In the night time, it looked gargantuan, and maybe even a little ominous, and Shiro has to squint to locate the end of the nearest bridge across the expanse.  
  
“It’s really big, isn’t it?” Keith noted, pointing with the bottle at the river.  
  
“Yeah,” Shiro agreed. “But you never really notice it when you’re smack in the middle of heavy traffic.”  
  
The other laughed. “That’s true. Sometimes, traffic gets so shitty, it’s hard to even see the road before you. Sometimes, when I’m driving around passengers and we hit a lock, you can’t help but feel like you’re lost somewhere.”  
  
The driver exhaled, settling on the grass slope and looking up at the sky. Shiro followed the other’s gaze, unused to looking up when he’s spent so long looking down. There were a few stars, twinkling here and there, and the moon half-hidden by clouds. Even at night, the sky looked bright and huge, painted in dark purple – lit by the glow of Seoul’s mechanical lights. Almost the same shade of Keith’s eyes.  
  
“What kind of passengers do you get?” Shiro asked, turning to the driver. On the surface, it sounded like an insipid question but he was genuinely curious.  
  
“A lot, and they come in so many amusing packages.” Keith answered. “There’re the businessmen-type like you – in their fancy coats and briefcases, always on their phones - and then there’s the drunk partygoer at four in the morning that would often threaten to puke on the car seat, and there’s the college student running late and that passenger that doesn’t even have cash to pay me – and trust me, I get that one a lot, too!”  
  
“Sounds stressful.” Shiro commented, imagining the mass of people he’d meet in a day, each as chaotic as the other. Stressful and confusing.  
  
A grin. “It can be, but I like being there – talking to those people, or just being near them and getting to know who they are, just for that moment. There are passengers who talk to me, they make conversation and we end up laughing.”  
  
Keith took a swig from his bottle, smacking his lips after. “It’s funny, now that I think about it. I get a lot of passengers, but not one of them is the same. There’s always that one difference to them – you get the silent ones, and the ones that talk about anything and everything under the sun. There’s the heartbroken high-schooler crying in the back, or the mom that has to leave her kids. Guess that kills me the most, sometimes.”  
  
Keith’s voice was light and easy, as if he wasn’t talking about something sad, about something lonesome.  
  
“There are some passengers who don’t even look at me, but I’m used to that. There are some passengers that look down their noses at me because I’m just a taxi driver and there are those who make so many demands, swinging them here and there, getting into the middle of a gridlock but ,hey, people are people and a bunch of rotten eggs don’t make for the entire barn, right? Or something like that, anyway. Not everyone’s gonna be nice. Why bother getting yourself down for it, right?”  
  
“It’s not easy for some people.” Shiro muttered, a little too honest and a little too unexpectedly for his taste. “For some people, it stays with them. Sometimes, for years. Others don’t take rejection well. Others hold on to it, and it changes them.”  
  
The way Keith sounded, it shouldn’t be easy for him too – because, in spite, of the lighthearted tone of the other’s voice, Shiro suspected that such a dream can also be a little too lonely sometimes.  
  
“Yeah,” A puff of air. “I understand. It’s not to say that I disregard people’s dislike or apathy of me, or anyone else for that matter, but sometimes – you just have to look up and wonder at how long you plan to keep it to yourself, how long you let it change you and adapt you to it. Sure, it’s easier to maybe just keep your head down and have people trod all over you and let it go on but, if you think about it, it’s hard to light a candle and easier to curse the darkness instead. Some people let the damage set in, and others – well, for some, they accept it, they feel it and they let it change them. For the better.”  
  
“How?”  
  
And that’s the big question Shiro wants answered. How do you allow yourself to let go? How do you allow yourself to let go of the things that have haunted you – to let yourself freely fall and believe in things that can’t even offer up any semblance of proof that it will be worth it? Why invest in the nonexistent, and better yet, why invest in something that he has never experienced?  
  
Why invest in something that could hurt him again?  
  
“How what?” Keith asked, and Shiro bowed his head, lets the hair cover his eyes. He felt somewhat vulnerable – even in his office clothes, the usual reassurance they hold on him, that he’s doing well, that he’s being a good grown-up — and he whispers his question instead.  
  
“How do you hope? How do you settle with that?”  
  
Keith was silent, and Shiro felt the flimsy bravery he’s built to ask slowly starting to crumble, settling that it’s a question he’ll never have answered.  
  
“Hope, huh?” Keith repeated, and it’s more to himself than to Shiro. “Hope…is a funny thing.”  
  
“Not everyone starts off with a plan,” Keith said, breaking the silence. “Not everyone has a life plan to follow, to have a back-up plan in place in case their first plan goes up in smoke. For some of us, we put our hopes on one thing – invest so much of our time, our energy and our faith in that one thing – and when it blows up in our faces, we have no idea how to go on. We’re left with nothing but rocks, and we can’t help but wonder how we’ll build it all back up.”  
  
Shiro’s seen that – he’s seen such a thing in display. He knew it vividly, seen it in the trembling of his mother’s shoulders, in the echoes of his father’s word. He sometimes see that, when he wakes up and walks past the bedroom mirror on his way to the bathroom.  
  
Sometimes, it’s in the form of an exhausted man, dark circles under his eyes, looking back at him painted in swaths of light and shadow.  
  
“Because it’s understandable – how do you go on from the only thing you had? That kind of thing can stagger people and leave them empty. I get it, I really do. How do you tell yourself to get up, to try again, and reach for it even after knowing that you can fall and get hurt again? Nobody wants to be hurt, and you can’t blame other people for wanting to feel safe, to feel reassured.”  
  
Maybe, on a surface level of thought, it would be awkward to talk about this with a stranger. Or perhaps awkward was just putting things too lightly – Shiro wouldn’t have even dared open up such a topic with someone he barely knows (and he barely knows Keith save for the light reflected in his eyes, and the shadows cast over the angles of his face) but maybe, just maybe, he can let it slide – because the echoes of Keith’s words, the nuances traipsing the fringes on something that pulled at his heartstrings, reverberated inside him.  
  
Years of questions, held deep inside, content to bow his head and be silent and let the world carry him away (and maybe he’s tired of it, for once).  
  
Keith brought his hand up and Shiro watched him grasp for the sky. “It’s hard to hope, harder to hope again but I think it’s hardest to not even hope at all. I asked myself – can you go, without looking up? Can you go on living, not even giving your happiness a chance – to wonder if there’s possibility? Can you live with not knowing, with letting the currents take you away?”  
  
“That’s the thing about hope — it asks you, and you don’t ask it. A lot of people think hope is something you get – something you earn. Maybe it is, who am I to say it’s not? But, in my experience, hope is something you create yourself. It’s something you make, and something you become.”  
  
(Maybe Shiro would like to see that, someday, even when he still can’t wrap his mind around the very idea of it.)  
  
“Hope is what you make of it. It’s bigger and brighter than anyone can ever imagine, and I really think it’s spells something far better for us, better than what we could ever make of ourselves and that’s the good part, methinks – that it’s always aiming for something better, for something that would make you pause and think and for something that would make you realize – what I could have thought of myself was nothing compared to this.”  
  
His hand drops, and Shiro follows the trail from sky to grass, and he takes in the glimmer of moonlight across the slope of Keith’s nose. Idealistic, and naïve and gullible and every other similar word comes to mind, but Shiro can’t find it himself to pin it on Keith – because words meant for mere sentimentality shouldn’t hold the echoes of Keith’s past, shouldn’t clench the faint muscles around his own heart. He meets the other’s eyes. “Can you get by with never wondering? Can you live with that, knowing you’re passing on something that could change things for the better?  
  
And, Shiro, lost in thought, doesn’t have an answer. 

* * *

_Minus two by minus three six Y, you end up with five x plus three Y times two XXY, rewrite equation 1_ _  
_ _  
_ “Are you excited?” His mother asked, smiling and Shiro nodded, can’t help but smile as well.  
  
“I am too, baby. We’ll see daddy soon. Do you miss him?”  
  
Shiro nodded, lets the pencil fall from his hand and ignores the Algebra book before him. His mother is sitting across him, cutting vegetables for dinner.  
  
He’s eleven, and otou-san was coming home next year. He hasn’t seen his father in a long time, save for the Skype videos they do every Friday, or the e-mails his mother tells him about. He’s excited to see him again, a stash of drawings waiting in his bedroom and even when his friends tell him it’s lame to draw for your parents when you’re eleven, Shiro doesn’t stop.  
  
“You’ll do well for your collegiate exams, right? You promised your father you’ll do well.”  
  
Shiro nodded. “I will. I’ll do my best.”  
  
His mother smiled bright at him, and Shiro liked that she’s happy now that his father was coming home. Sometimes, Shiro wanted her to smile like that when it’s just him – but looking at it now, it doesn’t really matter whether it’s him that makes his mom smile or it’s the thought of his father coming home. He just wants his mother and father to be happy. He’ll do them proud. He will. 

* * *

“I don’t understand it.” Shiro finally says, and Keith looks at him – in question.  
  
“I don’t understand how easy it is for other people, to hold on to something that will not always be there. This is why we have plans and we have order. Putting everything to chance is just risky. It’s not practical. People should understand that.”  
  
“People do understand that.” Keith answered, and Shiro’s brows furrowed.  
  
“Then why? Why do people still hope?”  
  
“Maybe it’s because they should. Maybe they should hope, and dream and wish and pray. Maybe it’s impractical, maybe it’s even stupid – but people should hope, should they not? To exceed further than what you could ever imagine for yourself? Is that a bad thing – to be more than whatever you should or could be?”  
  
“But—“ Keith turned to him, and something in his eyes seared deep into Shiro, cutting his own words off.  
  
“Have you ever wanted to be something far larger than what you are now, Shiro?”  
  
And that’s the first time Keith said his name in a while, and Shiro feels a shiver run up his spine at the sound of his name on Keith’s lips, but the question staggers him.  
  
There are a million things he had wanted to be – a million nights spent dreaming and wanting, wrapped in cartoon-print blankets, lit by an amber colored lamp in the small of his childhood bedroom. A million times he’s paused, in a daydream in school, a scribble by his notebook, moments he’s paused in filling out equations on a test paper where he stopped to wonder for more than this.  
  
“Once, and I can’t remember anymore.” He whispered, even when he does remember every sliver that it made him feel, the spikes of dreams and ambition, a little nest of happiness welling up in his eight year old self.  
  
Keith’s voice is soothing when he responds. “Maybe it’s about time that you do.” 

* * *

He’s seventeen.  
  
He’s graduating.  
  
He walks to the stage, and bows to the school director. He takes hold of the diploma, and the director calls for his parents.  
  
His mother stands beside him as the school photographer readies his camera.  
  
His father is back in Canada. 

* * *

“I wasn’t always hopeful.” Keith admits, bottle empty beside him.  
  
Shiro looks to him, and the driver shook his head.  
  
“The thing is — people have this idea in this head that hope belongs to the hopeful, that it’s there for people who have the capability to hope and those capable to hope are only those who are hopeful right from the start. It’s not. It’s there for everyone.”  
  
His lips curled in thought for a moment, before Keith continued. “It’s there for those who haven’t even began hoping again.”  
  
“Sometimes, hoping again is the challenge. Sometimes, dreaming is the most difficult thing you’ll have to do, but it can be worth it. It really is.”  
  
Words that sound as self-assured as they did should sound preachy, artificial and tacky – should sound like chalk on board – but Shiro doesn’t find it that way, finds the low tone of assurance in Keith’s voice to speaks more truth than Shiro had ever told himself.  
  
“What happened?” Shiro asked, and Keith exhaled.  
  
“What do you think? A political science drop-out from a good university working as a taxi driver because he wants to meet people? What do you think happened?”  
  
It’s not sarcastic, not even pointed or angry, but Shiro felt, rather than heard, the tender spikes of the words.  
  
“Your parents didn’t want that, did they?”  
  
Keith was still when he responded. “How are you going to make a living off that? How are you going to succeed? Why would you settle for that? Why would you waste our hard work and sacrifice for something like that?”  
  
And Shiro understood – he finally did – that Keith wasn’t always hopeful, that Keith was just the same as anyone else, getting by, swimming in the currents, the same words repeated across his life. He’s forgotten that no one is born hopeful, no one is born with that deep-seated reassurance. Everyone gets lost, everyone gets torn and hurt.  
  
“The hardest part,” Keith’s voice goes raw, and Shiro wanted to reach a hand out. “the hardest part was never seeing them again. My parents, they’ve held a large part of my life – a part that I can’t and will not forget. They couldn’t understand it, they did everything they could to change my mind – ground me, punish me, threaten to disown me.”  
  
“But they disowned you, didn’t they?”  
  
A laugh. “You think that would be the case, but they didn’t. I left before they could.”  
  
A pause. “Why?”  
  
“I didn’t want to hurt them any further. The thing is, Shiro, everyone can hope. Everyone can be hopeful, and everyone can dream but not everyone will understand that. Not everyone will hear your thoughts and look at them the way we do. Not everyone understands the way others work, and how could they? Everyone is unique – individuals are unique – they have their own beliefs, their own motivations and their own experiences.”  
  
Not everyone would believe in your dreams, Shiro thought. Not everyone would want you to dream for yourself.  
  
“My parents weren’t able to understand that. They wanted me to live my life according to their beliefs, their own idea of what success and happiness was. The thing was, what makes other people happy isn’t necessarily the same thing that makes us happy. It’s not something absolute, like numbers or equations. I can’t fault them for that – because that’s all they know, that’s their belief of what happiness is.”

The wind rustled the grass under their shoes, and they turned to watch the rustle of the river’s surface, before Keith’s voice continued.

“Can we fault the people we love for wanting the best for us, even when they don’t necessarily see that it’s not what’s best for us? Can we fault our family for wanting us to be safe, to be secure and to be taken care of – even when doing so would mean that we’re stuck doing things that don’t interest us, things that chain us down? They’re my parents. They only want me to be happy, and to never beg for anything else.”  
  
Shiro bit his lip, unable to ignore the weight on his chest. If only…  
  
“I can’t fault them for that, Shiro. I can only hope, and pray and continue to love them – to the best of my ability, to the best that I can do, even if they don’t want to hear it, even if they don’t see it.”  
  
He nods along, watching the light glint off the planes across Keith’s face. “And you? How do you deal with the pain?”  
  
“And I,” Keith smiled at him, eyes dark, “go on. I go on hoping. I go on living. The best I can do is to be the happiest I can, to live out my dream – it’s the best I can do for my parents and for myself.”  
  
Keith plays with the fallen bottle against the grass, voice carrying over in the quiet. “I still reach out to them, even now. No matter how much time passes between us, no matter how many Christmases and New Years and birthdays pass and I celebrate by myself, I still try my best to reach out. Because dreaming doesn’t mean letting go – and just because things have changed, doesn’t mean what I feel for them has to. It hurts, yes, I understand that. It’s plain as day. It hurts to see the fireworks on New Years and know I’m watching it by myself, or to drive passengers to Christmas dinners. It hurts to fetch sons from airports, and it’s even worse when I pick a whole family up and I hear their laughter in the back. I can’t tell you how many times my heart has clenched the moment I wake up on my birthday and hear nothing from there.”  
  
“It hurts and I don’t pretend it doesn’t. The pain is there to be felt, it’s there as a reminder.”  
  
Starlight trembled, and danced, on Keith’s slightly watery eyes. Shiro just wants to bridge the distance and…and do something to rid the heaviness pressing on his chest.  
  
“Every time it hurts, I remind myself to hope even more. Every time I feel like stopping and crying, I tell myself to dream some more. Every time I see those fireworks, I tell myself that my parents are watching the same thing. Every time I wake up on my birthday alone, I know that my parents wake up and think the same thing – and knowing that they think of me, even for that one moment, is enough.”  
  
Keith smiled, and his eyes were shining and Shiro’s own are stinging with the other’s heartfelt words. “Every day, every second of every day, I hope. I hope, and I pray and I dream — for something bigger, for something bright and for something better than I can ever make of myself. I hope for the better, and I keep on hoping, until it does.”  
  
“And what if it doesn’t?” Shiro couldn’t help but ask, voice straining with the fears and the worries he’s hidden all these years. “What if it never does get better?”  
  
“Then I don’t stop hoping.” It was simple as that.

* * *

The ride back to Cheongdam-dong was silent, the streets blessedly sparse now, and Shiro takes a peek at his watch – sees time running close by to midnight – and he sighed, tired but no longer hungry. The streetlights whizz past the car windows in silence, and Shiro absently takes note of the familiar streets, the lines of stores and boutiques, the streetlamp with the chipped off paint, the pile of garbage by the alley in-between Gucci and HBA, that one dilapidated looking building smack in the middle of the newer ones.  
  
Keith was quiet, but Shiro found the silence soothing, the engine hum lulling him to a drowsy state – the buzz of the soju earlier gone down his system.  
  
As Keith turned the cab around a corner, Shiro took the time to look at the other and notes his profile. Funny – today had been the most unusual day he’s had, drifting out of his routine. Shiro felt that even today, of all days, was fortuitous by itself and he doesn’t use that word often. It used to sound too hopeful, too idealistic for him – always been used to the same thing over and over again, to what works – but now, he might start to think that he sees the appeal in it, and he can finally understand – maybe by just a sliver – why people want to hold on to something as tenaciously finicky as hope and fate.  
  
Fortuitous – in the way that, of all people he had met today, it had to be this taxi driver, far younger than most that he’s seen, but with eyes glowing with a wisdom Shiro had yet to experience. Wise beyond his years, and words still holding to that glimmer of hope and dreams, and Shiro realized that he may not understand it completely – how people could hold on to something like that fully and completely – but he feels like he’s beginning to.  
  
When his apartment comes into view, Shiro recognized the swell of security come up, even as he feels a bit down at the thought of this journey with Keith ending. When he quietly points out to his stop, Keith remains silent, quietly parking his car before the apartment steps.  
  
It’s quiet inside, and Shiro doesn’t want to move, to fumble for change to give Keith. Handing the change would mean the end – and call him selfish – Shiro doesn’t want it to end, doesn’t want this ride to stop. Keith’s words had lit a flame inside, and its embers glowed weakly, but they do glow and Shiro can’t make out the words itching to run up his throat and out of his lips, settles on silence – the familiar, the known.  
  
He looks up the rear view mirror and sees the other looking at him. His eyes are still twinkling, a sliver of sadness beneath.  
  
“Promise me?” Keith asks. A thousand and one words come up to his mind, a million promises that has left him reeling and Shiro recalls buckling under the weight of such words – but Keith’s are light, soothing and even with that familiar fear spiking, there’s something there, maybe it’s reassurance, or instinct, but it tells him of something far deeper than childhood fears could ever reach.  
  
Shiro doesn’t even think about his response when he blurts it out. “Yes?”  
  
“Promise me you’ll remember what I said? About how it’s time for you to remember what it’s like to dream?”  
  
“I…” and Shiro pauses, because all his life he’s known how to do everything right, set everything with a plan and promising on chance was something entirely new, entirely different – but can he? Can he let himself try? Can he finally let himself look up and dream?  
  
Days spent wondering the same thing, maybe in passing or when in the middle of work – but the thoughts do pass and the questions remain unanswered. Maybe it was time that they did.  
  
“I can’t promise you I’ll remember,” Shiro responded and Keith nodded, smile turning sad. “but I can promise you that I’ll try.”  
  
A bright grin, shining under Seoul’s artificial streetlights and Shiro feels blinded. He doesn’t understand, doesn’t know what to make of the brightness of the smile, the gleam of happiness with a glowing warmth that reminds him of home. “That’s enough.”  
  
Thanks, that’s what Shiro wanted to say – but he feels it’s too trite, too fabricated-sounding to express what meeting Keith today had meant for him. With his heart in his throat, Shiro ducks and looks for payment when Keith turns in his seat.  
  
“Hey,” Keith says and Shiro looks up. “It’s on me. Thanks, for today. Meeting you was wonderful.”  
  
Unable to do more than nod, Shiro exits the taxi – before he could stop himself, before he could do anything else - bringing his briefcase with him. Keith is silent, following him with his mauve gaze and when Shiro closes the door after him – it takes him a full minute before the taxi starts and backs to the driveway. Shiro watches Keith drive off, tail lights trailing away. They flash, dimmed, in the dark and he watches as they disappear into the current of car lights and street lamps, blinking and shining, lost in Seoul’s manmade stars. 

* * *

A cold shower clears the exhaustion away – the continuous, rapid thrust of the water dulling his senses, his mind blanking out - and when Shiro sits on his bed, towel on one end and his phone in his hand – he remembers Keith’s words.  
  
It’s a familiar situation – this, even the position of his body recalls years of memories (the habitual irony).  
  
He can’t count how many times he’s done this, sit on the bed – phone on his hand. He can’t count how many times he’s felt this way – on the brink of doing something totally outside his routine – but his routine is there for a reason, and he’s always been afraid to break that.  
  
He remembers promising Keith to try but he can’t help the fear that climbs up his throat, the fear that chills his hands and has him tightening his grasp on his phone, feeling the sides cut into his hand.  
  
How many times had he put everything on faith and had it thrown back in his face? How many times had he placed himself out there, only to get hurt? How many times – he’s lost count, and he’s lost count of the many times he’s had to piece himself back together, and maybe sometimes he can’t even piece himself back (his hands are stained, his fingers bleeding) –  
  
An absent father.  
  
A nostalgic mother.  
  
Crumbling under expectations and conditions, and he can’t even remember the last time he’s ever felt happy, the last time he’s ever felt like he’s done something good – something worth being proud of – and he realizes: he hasn’t been happy in a really long time.  
  
He’s become so used to routine, to setting everything up to order because then, if he does the same thing, if he does what’s normal, if he sticks to what he knows – he won’t get hurt. It never mattered if he was happy, just as long as he was never hurt. It wasn’t a good way to live, and frankly, Shiro finds it hard to think on how he should be living at all.

* * *

A hand is pressed to his cheek, and Shiro blinks away tears as he takes in his mother’s sad countenance, her red eyes, the furrow of her brows and the strands of her hair. She’s suddenly become very old in his eyes: her once chestnut hair, now stained in gray; lines of age and weariness under her eyes – bright gaze dimmed into a constantly wary and lonesome light – and something in that image, in his own understanding, hurts him far more than the stinging bite of his father’s voice.  
  
“You have to do well,” she says, and her voice is heartbroken and angry and everything Shiro can’t pinpoint, everything he can’t fathom because his ears are still ringing with his father’s words and he can’t help but bite his lips, holding the choking cry in. “You have to do well, so you can live a good life and be a good grown-up.”  
  
A kiss on his forehead and he holds on to his mother’s blouse, and he doesn’t want to feel this way. He doesn’t want to feel this way at all.  
  
He just wanted to make his father happy, his mother happy – he just wanted everyone to be happy. He missed his father’s bright laugh, hands around him as he is hoisted in the air. He misses his mother’s warm kiss on his check, sharing laughter with his father as they sit by his side on his bed, telling stories – dinosaurs on clouds and gummy warriors off to save princesses – that same story, over and over, in different characters, until his eyes fall close in sleep.  
  
He never realized it was hard, that it was so hard.  
  
“One day, you’ll grow up and you’ll have to survive on your own. You have to be able to take care of yourself, so that you’ll never have to ask for help from other people. You’ll never have to chain yourself to other people and be at their mercy. One day, you’re going to have to fly and you need to fly away, so far away.”  
  
He doesn’t understand his mother’s words, but he understands the sorrow in her voice, and he presses his nose against her breast, smelling her lilac cologne and, for a second, forgets his father’s disappointment.  
  
“You’ll be okay, I know. You’ll be okay, but you have to learn to grow up first.”

* * *

He presses the numbers in and brings the phone to his ear. If he had given the time any thought, he would think it was inappropriate – to call when it’s past midnight – but giving anything as mundane as time any thought now would have distracted him, and he would have backed out, relent and return to safety. He now realizes he was like that: he ran away, away from things, away from what hurt him, away from what threatened to upheave everything that kept him balanced, kept him orbiting.  
  
But he has to do this – he had to.  
  
He promised.  
  
He doesn’t hear the ringing, but he hears memories rushing back, all running through his mind. Like a film strip placed over his eyes, he remembers holding on to a picture in his right hand and a crayon in the other and he remembers reaching out to his sad mother, the scent of lilac and rain pattering faintly overhead.  
  
A click, and a groggy voice comes up on the other end. “’ello?”  
  
Shiro pauses, a thousand words on the edge of his tongue but fear clogs his throat up, and he closes his eyes tight, tears stinging. He shouldn’t cry, a part of Shiro reminds him, that he’s old already, that he’s grown and grown-ups shouldn’t cry, but he wonders – who told him that it was not okay to cry? That it was not okay to feel the pain? Pain’s there for a reason, pain is there to remind – and maybe, the saddest part of growing up is forgetting what was important.  
  
Sadness – nostalgia – maybe even a childish, or childlike, need for assurance bubbles up and he can’t help but struggle, unable to get the words out.  
  
“Hello?” And something softer, far softer than curiousity, bordering on the edge of dawning hope and fear, fringes on the edge of the last syllable and Shiro gasps, chokes out the next few words.  
  
“Mom?” He says, whispers, voice small – filled with everything he can and can’t name. “Mom? It’s me.”  
  
He breathes, and pushes on. “It’s me, mom.”  
  
“Takashi?”  
  
And he laughs, or cries, he doesn’t know which but it doesn’t even matter anymore. He’s thought about this, but it’s completely unlike everything he thought it would be. “Yeah, mom. I’m here. I’m here.”  
  
“Takashi?!” And his mom’s voice breaks on his name and he feels warmth streak down his cheeks, reminding him, grounding him.  
  
“Hi, mom. It’s me.”  
  
He wants to tell her – he wants to tell her everything, everything he’s done, he’s felt, the things that he’s done to get by, the memories he holds on to (the memories he tells himself that he’s not holding on to), the nighttime fears that come calling at more nights than he wanted, the days spent at work wondering if it’s what he wanted to do for the rest of his life, waking up and, for that one second, unsure of his own self, meeting Keith and realizing that he wasn’t living, just existing.  
  
He wants to tell her everything and nothing, wants to blurt out a million words, a million reasons and he wants to keep his mouth shut, letting himself be grounded in the sound of her voice.  
  
And he doesn’t know how long he sits there, phone pressed against his cheek, sniffling as he repeats the same phrase over and over, and lets his mother’s voice wash him in a wave of memories and recalled hope.

* * *

Fortuitous — it means to happen by accident or chance and not by design. Shiro’s never been one to put much basis on something like chance, on something as unreliable and inconsistent as fate. Chance was finicky – you never know what you’ll get when you bet on it. More often than not, it spells hurt; and maybe, on some rare occasion – born out of a semblance of its own order – chance leads you to something good, or something better. Shiro finds that hard to believe. Maybe it’s because he’s spent most of his life avoiding chance, riding out the waves of routine because what he knows is what’s safe, and safe will never hurt him. It never really mattered if he was happy, and he’s not even sure if it was a right way to live at all but now – he thinks – it may not have been the best choice but it was an experience he wouldn’t trade away for anything. When he looks back at it now, Shiro realizes he would have never understood – seen hope for what it was in its entirety – had he not gone through what he had. Maybe those social media posts that try to be inspirational do have some trace of truth in them, and maybe – just maybe – fate does operate on the same basis of hope, that if you’re just brave enough, it’s there, waiting.  
  
It was hard to hope, harder to hope again and, he knew, it was hardest to not even hope at all.  
  
He doesn’t know how long he had sat there, phone pressed to his cheek and listening to his mother cry (and maybe he cried a bit, too) but ten years with no contact was a long time – a decade of locked bitterness and spite – and maybe it was time to start bridging that distance back.  
  
How many times had he been hurt and responded to that hurt with even more pain? He’s old enough, he’s grown and growing up made him realize that being an adult doesn’t mean routine, doesn’t mean living by what he knows and what’s safe. He had grown up, holding on to the belief that growing up means having to go with the flow, to let yourself be molded by what others ask of you. He had learned to be content with that because, in some way or other, he had molded that idea into an inkling of what happiness should be – even when it wasn’t necessarily what he thought made happiness as it is.  
  
Growing up was learning to dream again, to see things farther than what the world could ever put you in. Growing up was remembering, recalling what was important – and he’s forgotten that: that what was important wasn’t in the responsibilities he held, but maybe it was in his own actions, the dreams and wishes he’s made, in holding on to the things that he had so easily let go. He’s not there yet, he hasn’t gone that far, but he’s starting to know, he’s starting to step in the right direction. He’s still a little unsure, but just a miniscule part, maybe even just a sliver unsure, on whether he’ll ever get there – on whether he’ll ever have the magnanimous courage to hope completely and wholly, without fear, without doubt. Yet, somehow, he also feels grounded in the idea that the mere fact that he’s started, that he’s begun, tells him that he’s done enough. That he’s taken the first step. It’s that – taking a step, moving – that makes him feel like it’s all beginning to be worth it, because a cycle of routine was no better than being stuck in one place, watching and waiting and wondering, seeing life and everyone else pass by.  
  
And meeting Keith had taught him that it doesn’t really matter if it’s one step forward or a thousand steps back, the more important thing was taking that chance to even move in the first place.  
  
Shiro can’t say he’s hopeful yet but he’s no longer hope _less_ , and perhaps that, more than anything, was everything.  
  
His phone rings, and when he takes a look at who it is, he smiles to himself and presses it against his ear.  
  
“Hi, mom.”  
  
“Happy birthday, honey,” His mother croons, and he’s reminded of six and eight and twelve, the faint scent of ramen and spice, the feel of the crayon in his hand and her lilac cologne. He laughs, echoing against the walls of his house - walls that have been starved of the simple joy of a good laugh. “Thirty! My baby’s a big boy now.”  
  
“Mom,” He grouses, but there’s no heat and when Shiro takes a look at the mirror on the way out, the smile on his face is heartbreakingly bright, still a little unused to it but he’s getting there. He makes a face at his own reflection. “I’ve been a big boy since I was twelve.”  
  
“Pish-posh,” Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Shiro locked the door after himself. “Twelve or fifty-seven, you’re still going to be my big boy. My wonderful, wonderful big boy – and you’re still going to be my big boy no matter how old you pretend to be.”  
  
“Yes, ma’am.” He chuckled, walking down the steps, echoing in the empty staircase.  
  
“I’ll see you at the restaurant, alright? Your father’s already there, you know. He left me here at home while I was still dressing, the nerve.”  
  
“Seriously? That’s really unlike him.” Shiro noted, voice calm, a little surprised, unexpectedly pleased. His mother sighs on the other end.  
  
“It is, but he’s doing his best. He loves you, even if it’s sometimes hard to see.”  
  
“I know, mom. I love him, too.” It’s a step – he can never forget that feeling, that spike of disappointment and hurt in every mention of his father, but he’s learned to take it as it is and let it mold him to be something better than spite and bitterness could ever make him become and Shiro knows — on the same fringes of hope and belief — that, one day, it’ll get better. The image of his father, old and nearing seventy, sitting in a booth at the restaurant, waiting for him, comes to mind and if the painful clench in his chest is any indication, he stands by that belief, by that hope. He _knows_ it vividly. “I’ll see you later, alright? I love you.”  
  
“I love you, sweetie.” And the line clicks.  
  
Shiro pockets the phone, breathing in the air — a hint of summer already forming in the peripheries — and lets out a quiet breath. He’s at the landing, and looks up at the bright azure sky – clear, almost invisible clouds trailing across the expanse – and he hears the clucks and chirps of the pigeons nesting on the door way’s arch.  
  
It was a beautiful February day.  
  
A taxi comes into the lane and Shiro raises a hand, waving it down.  
  
He watched it slow down and settle smoothly against the lane, climbing down the steps and reaching for the car door. Shiro seats himself at the back, closing the door after himself.  
  
He looks up and, after pausing for a moment, smiles.  
  
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Keith asked from the driver seat, hand on the wheel, purple-blue eyes positively shining in the day.  
  
Shiro was quiet — remembering that night across the Han river, recalling the light and shadows across Keith’s face, that fortuitous moment over and over and even now, and his heart skids to a run at the other’s beautiful eyes — before he answers. “I sure hope so.”  
  


**END**

**Author's Note:**

> Are you gone to school?  
> Are you far from home?  
> Are you well alone, Dad?
> 
> Will I be a brave,  
> Will I be a bright,  
> Will I be a good grown-up?
> 
> Come scream at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/spaceboykenny) and on [Tumblr](https://spaceboykenny.tumblr.com/)


End file.
